


Scent of a Molly

by texadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, NSFW, PWP, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, washing machine sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock takes matters into his own hands when Molly switches her brand of laundry detergent, much to Sherlock's chagrin. </p>
<p>“I brought you this.” He handed her the four-liter bottle and moved past her into the room. <br/>“I… I don’t need laundry detergent Sherlock. What are you doing here? And… why are you coming in? Sherlock!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent of a Molly

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to MizJoely for helping me edit this fic and sticking with me. It's my first of this... genre, so bear with me.

The door to Bart's clicked shut as Sherlock stepped inside, closing it unceremoniously behind him. He straightened out his coat and scarf -not because it was all that messy, but because Sherlock liked consistency. There was consistency in his dress, his routines and even his mannerisms. Everyone knew it.

John was never one to pick up on the small stuff, though. And so the issue of his acute attention to detail was never much of a problem for him, but always the chore for Sherlock. When John would run out of his regular Tetley tea and settle for the brand-less abomination at the back of the cupboard, Sherlock would go out of his way to break into John's flat, toss out the sorry excuse for tea, and buy a new package.

Today was no exception. So at just half past 10 in the morning, Sherlock made his way down the long monotonous hallway towards the lab. He peered in before making an entrance and noted Molly sitting perched on a metal stool with her attention drawn to a slide. He smiled faintly, most likely without realizing it, because that’s what she did to him. She made him slip –created hitches in his methods.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him without looking up from the microscope.

He hummed quietly to himself as if considering how she’d known it was him, before going to the back to retrieve his samples from the day before. It’d been 24 hours and thus long enough for the bacteria to grow in the agar gel he’d been working on in his free time.

He was just about to point out a flaw in the room’s ventilation when something caught his olfactory senses. In one fluent motion, he swung his body around and back to the countertop near Molly. She glanced up momentarily, but did not bother to investigate his behaviour. Sherlock leaned in, maybe a foot away or so, as if interested in the mucosal sample she’d been viewing.

It was obvious he had other intentions as Sherlock had undoubtedly solved the current case that Molly was investigating. He liked to give her time to solve it on her own every now and again. Mycroft would say he was slipping, but Sherlock could convince himself it was for a multitude of different reasons.

“Did you need something?” she finally asked, backing up a bit with a skeptical eye.

He withdrew promptly, but couldn’t help catching another whiff from her clothes as she leaned back.

“I-” He scrunched up his face in hesitation. “I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Without another word, Sherlock stepped back and retreated through the lab doors, forgetting to adjust his coat and scarf till he’d made it to the street.

Inside, Molly removed the slide from the microscope and cleaned her area. When she’d had time to recall their interaction, she stopped what she’d been doing and froze.

“Tomorrow?” she asked herself, bouncing the idea off of the empty room. “But that’s Saturday.”

 

Molly had been fretting all morning and most of the night before. Sure, Sherlock could have messed up his days of the week back at the lab, but that man was never anything less than thorough. At first she’d jumped to the conclusion that there’d been another lead on the case. How Sherlock would pre-emptively know was quite a conundrum. But considering the man under attention, it wouldn’t be completely out of his range. Halfway through breakfast, as she nursed a lukewarm cup of tea, a different and truthfully frightening thought came to her: he’d be coming here, to her place.

“Why?” she moaned, nearly knocking over the magenta coloured mug she’d got last year in a secret Santa gift exchange from work.

She scrambled to steady the beverage before sitting there stunned, still sipping away. When there was nothing left to drink from it, she stood from her chair, taking in her oversized dressing gown, and made a beeline for her bedroom.

If Sherlock was coming here, to her flat, she needed not to be here. Of course, halfway through buttoning up one of her pastel jumpers, she pondered both sides of the ever so unfair coin. If she wasn’t here, god knows what he’d do with her place. There just wasn’t any winning with the man.

Giving up on the last few buttons, Molly sank down onto her bed. Her hair tangled underneath her, but she didn’t care. Maybe she’d been over thinking this.

‘He meant Monday,’ she convinced herself. ‘Surely he did.’

“God. Am I crazy?”

Her question was met with a knock at her door –her bedroom door to be precise.

“Are you finished in there? I have something for you.”

Molly squeaked, covering her mouth with the end of her shirt that’d been stretched from nervously pulling on it many times before.

“Sherlock?” It came out like a question, but she’d intended it to be a scolding.

Her door whipped open, leaving him standing there awkwardly, holding a bottle of laundry detergent.

“What are you-” She cut herself off mid-sentence, taking in the man before her.

He was wearing the same shirt from the day before, or at least another one of the same colour and style and his hair, curled in all directions away from his face, was quite possibly messier than she’d ever seen it before.

“I brought you this.” He handed her the four-liter bottle and moved past her into the room.

“I… I don’t need laundry detergent Sherlock. What are you doing here? And… why are you coming in? Sherlock!” So that was what a proper scolding sounded like.

She steadied herself and sat the detergent down on her bedside table, the giant blue bottle looking foolish next to her alarm clock and small, family heirloom, table lamp.

He turned back towards her from his view out her front window and frowned.

“I came to bring you more laundry detergent,” he began, motioning to the bottle. “I thought that was quite obvious.”

“But I don’t need any Sherlock. And honestly, if I did, I don’t understand why you’d need to buy me any. I mean, it was quite nice of you… A little out of character and kind, I suppose. But…” She trailed off when she noticed how close he had moved towards her in the last ten seconds. “I have some already.”

“It’s all wrong though,” he stated, matter-of-factly. “You’ve changed brands.”

Molly laughed at the outrageousness of the accusation. “So? Why does that matter? And wait! How do you know what brand I bought before? Have you broken into my flat again? I ought to call John or Lestrade about this. I really should.”

She’d made her way out into her living room, to look for her phone, when a strong arm held her back.

“I haven’t broken in.” He stared down at her, biting the corners of his mouth subconsciously. “Well, I did today, but, besides that.”

“How’d you know the brand Sherlock?” She ignored his ramblings.

“I…” The answer was obvious to him, but now, saying it out loud, seemed preposterous.

“Sherlock,” her eyes lingered unsteadily but her tone came out insistent.

“It’s quite simple Molly, really. There are four potential brands you would use. Your machine requires liquid, so that rules out all powders. Most of your shopping bags come from the grocers down the road, which limits your selection down to the only four liquid detergents in your price range. And...”

He observed her minute actions carefully as the silence extended onward. Her hands rested in front of her, the right hand enveloping the left, as she swung them back and forth slowly. She made no indication that she was wavering on her question, but from the nervous tick of her eyebrow, he could tell she was very unsure about herself.

“I can smell it.”

Molly looked down at her jumper and drew the fabric up to her nose.

“I smell nothing, Sherlock. If anything, it’s probably the dryer sheets.”

“No!” he interjected rather sharply. “It’s not,” he continued, quieting down a bit.

He drew closer, with an awkward shifting of his body, but somehow found himself looking down from above her in seconds.

“May I?” he asked, while she nodded pre-emptively before he’d said a word.

His height was a bit of a problem, but he leaned over, as professionally as he could, and grasped the collar of her jumper with his fingers. The knit was light in his hands and rose up fairly easy –past her mouth and over her nose.

Like watching a doctor administrating a shot, her eyes couldn’t tear themselves away from the nerve-wracking man in front of her.

Was she breathing? How was she still standing? Was he breathing? He was. With a brief sniff, Sherlock took in the faint aroma coming from Molly’s jumper.

“You’re right,” he finally spoke up, only backing his face away slightly. “This piece of clothing has been on the shelf too long to still give off the detergent smell.”

“Then why-” Molly began before Sherlock quickly released her jumper and stalked back to her room. “Where are you going?”

“I need… to find… that blouse… from yesterday,” he replied as article after article of clothing flew from her hamper.

Molly sighed, frustrated, and picked up the clothing as it hit the floor.

“It’s not in there,” she supplied, before snatching away a bra that had dangled precariously from his index finger for a good ten seconds now. “It’s probably still on the bathroom floor from yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he snipped, turning and leaving the room. “Molly!”

“What Sherlock?” She found him hunched down on the tile in her bathroom, holding the blue blouse from work. “What now?”

“Wrong!” He tossed the shirt to the floor and stood up. “All wrong. The smell is wrong.”

Sherlock pulled back the curtain on her shower and began opening the tops of every bottle on the shelf.

“No, no, no.” He pushed the unwanted bottles aside, before moving onto the next and wafting the air above it. Finally, with an indignant huff, he found her facial scrub and compared its smell to that of the blouse.

“Your fruity face goop has altered the smell of the whole bathroom and I can no longer smell the new detergent on your blouse.”

Molly stared back at him confused. “And what am I supposed to do about that?”

He glared down at her annoyed before stomping his foot like a petulant child. It was then, as his eyes scanned her bathroom floor, that Sherlock’s mind put the pieces together.

“Trousers, pants, socks, shirt,” he rattled off the clothing items around him until he came up one item short.

With a one-track mind, Sherlock bounded over to Molly, leaning against the door, and took the corner of her jumper in his hand this time. She’d barely had enough time to splutter an interjection when he’d pushed the peachy material aside and ran his fingers down the strap on her bra.

Molly’s jaw fell slack and could only watch, partly in fascination and maybe a little bit in horror, as Sherlock followed the light blue elastic strap down to the modest cup below.

Her jumper now sat half off her shoulder as Sherlock brushed his fingers over the checkered blue and white right cup. He seemed transfixed, if only for a moment, and paid no attention to the frozen Molly in front of him.

Neither of them made a peep until a barely audible squeak emanated from Molly’s lips as Sherlock lowered his face to her chest. She could feel his breath ghosting down her neckline and her hands grew restless at her side.

She wasn’t sure who was more surprised when the pair of small, but strong hands encircled Sherlock’s neck just as his nose came to rest above the cup. The two remained unmoving for what seemed like minutes on end –only the wispy sound of Sherlock’s breath meeting the fabric of Molly’s bra kept the room from entering complete silence.

“Your old one,” Sherlock finally spoke up, although his face was still centimeters from Molly’s chest. “Your bra smells like your old detergent. I prefer that one.”

His eye glanced up at her for a brief moment, taking in her reddened cheeks and shallow breaths.

“I…” She nodded in response, but made no attempt at forming a complete sentence or phrase for that matter.

Sherlock looked away immediately, skimming his cheek along the padding, and began to stand –his pulse so strong and rapid, he could feel it beating through at the tips of his fingers. He’d come face to face with Molly, still bent over a bit, when her hands that’d been resting in the crook between his shoulders and neck, pulled him back down.

“Omph,” he let out a low huff at the force, but didn’t fight it.

Molly’s eyes were still trained forward, but her fingers, tapping away at the base of his neck, told a different story. Sherlock arched his brow in curiosity and leaned into her touch, letting her fingers tangle gradually into his dark curls. She pulled lightly on them as her stone cold façade began to disintegrate and a small grin spread across her face.

Sherlock chuckled, like he’d figured out a long running inside joke between the two of them. She might have rolled her eyes at that, but Sherlock didn’t catch it as he ducked his head forward, placing his lips along the outline of the cup he’d smelled earlier. Her skin was much different than the facial scrub or bargain brand detergent from before. It smelled of lavender and mixed fruits, but with the added bonus of a warm and soft pressure against his mouth. His hands, in haste to feel this new found wonder, found the jumper an inconvenience and pulled impatiently at the fabric. It snagged twice before sliding down her shoulders and hanging loosely, halfway down her back.

Molly however, found neither the jumper nor the unlawful amount of clothing between them, an inconvenience. With little more than a quick pivot, Molly maneuvered Sherlock out of the bathroom and into the hall. His grip on her was persistent though and due to a slight miscalculation on her part, the two fell unceremoniously to the ground, halfway out the door. Their bodies lay in a mess on the floor as Sherlock gripped the side frame of the door for balance.

“Bugger!” Sherlock swore to himself, trying to shift his body as Molly’s knee dug into the inside of his thigh. “Bloody cock-up.”

“Oh, just shut it!” Molly yelled suddenly, over top of Sherlock’s muttering.

The 5’3” brunette pushed herself backwards and onto her knees, before shrugging off the oversized jumper and whipping it backwards into her bathroom.

Sherlock looked up at her, frazzled, with his upper body propped up by his arms behind him.

“Well?” Molly prompted, waiting for him to do anything at this point.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock tested the waters, unsure if she’d been mad at him or simply the situation.

Molly shook her head to herself, before getting to her feet.

“I’m beginning to think that those two little words are turning into your get-out-of-jail-free-card,” Molly quipped before offering her hand to Sherlock.

He took it and pulled himself up from the floor, smoothing down his dark coloured button-up.

“It’s three words if you consider the conjunction and I highly doubt Monopoly applies here.”

Molly raised her brows and sighed heavily.

“Whatever you say, Sherlock.”

With an exaggerated turn, Molly stalked back into the bathroom and grabbed her previously discarded jumper.

“If you have no more laundry products to give me, I’ll see you out.”

Molly walked past a stunned Sherlock, slipping her unbuttoned jumper around her shoulders, and unlocked her front door.

“Well?”

Sherlock stumbled on his words before frowning and nodding in acceptance.

“Please consider my suggestion,” Sherlock persisted, turning to Molly when he’d made it over to the door.

Molly smiled flatly and opened the door for him. Her jumper still sat open with a good strip of skin showing, but Molly made no move to cover herself or pretend she didn’t notice him staring.

“Sherlock,” she warned, trying to wave him through.

“Right, sorr- see you Monday.”

And with that, he was out of her hair, for now.

 

A week had passed, almost Sherlock-free for Molly, but the of couple of times he’d been by the lab were immeasurably worse than anything she could have imagined before their… mistake. Molly didn’t like to dwell on the topic, but it had its way of rearing its ugly head in once in a while.

Both of the times, Monday and Friday, he’d barely stuck around. John waited for him impatiently by the door while he practically walked in and out. Molly was used to all sorts of behaviour when running into exes –not that Sherlock was an ex, per say, but after last Saturday, they were no longer amiable acquaintances. Some ex-boyfriends chose to ignore her when they’d cross paths. Others tried to be overly kind; usually the ones that had ended it, and some were completely nonchalant.

Sherlock didn’t fit into a singular category. Like the first, Sherlock had barely given her the time of day. He was by no means overly kind or nonchalant, but as he’d passed her on the way out the door, he leaned in close and rested a hand over her shoulder for a longer allotment of time than was appropriate.

And for this behaviour of neither kindness nor interest in her life after their… incident, Molly found there no reason to believe that the intruder in her home was indeed Sherlock.

“Should have guessed,” she snarled to herself upon seeing his Belstaff slung over the back of her couch.

Setting her groceries down on the counter, Molly followed the intermittent noise until she noticed the door to her small laundry room ajar.

“Sherlock,” she yelled out in a frustrated groan. “What are you doing? This better not have to do with that bloody detergent again.”

“Would you like a lie or the truth?” he questioned sheepishly, dropping a long sleeved grey shirt she hadn’t worn in ages into the washing machine.

Molly didn’t bother answering his question and stepped forward to investigate what he’d been up to.

“Why are you washing my clothes?”

He sighed dramatically. “The better question, is why haven’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock picked up another shirt from the basket sitting atop the dryer and threw it in.

“I gave you the proper detergent last week and you haven’t even opened it yet. I mean, where is it? The clothes you continued to wear all week still smelled like that horrible new one you purchased and… and I needed to fix that.”

“So you broke in, again, and started washing my clothes? Ones that aren’t even dirty mind you.”

Sherlock nodded slowly as a perturbed countenance fell from his face. He drew himself away from the machine and made his way over to Molly, the gears in his mind slowly picking up speed as he neared the confused pathologist.

“What-” Molly tried to ask before he’d made his final step in front of her and began unzipping the light jacket currently encasing her frame.

His nimble fingers made quick work of the nagging zipper and slipped it from her shoulders, placing it neatly over the rail beside the door.

“What are you doing?” Molly finally got out as he began with the buttons on her partially done up jumper.

“You said the clothes I was washing weren’t dirty.” It came out with a shrug, like he wasn’t currently pulling the crème coloured jumper from her shoulders and sliding it down her arms.

“Oh,” Molly replied, stalk still.

“So I figured I would wash something that was.”

Molly bit her lip, scared at what reaction her body would produce at those words.

“As long as that’s fine with you,” Sherlock added, tossing the piece of clothing into the wash with the other lights. “You did seem quite against washing your laundry before.”

A rather high-pitched giggle escaped her lips as Sherlock smirked back at her.

“It is def-definitely fine with me.”

“Splendid.”

A white long sleeved shirt and pair of beige trousers hit the inside of the machine within a minute and Molly, somehow amidst Sherlock’s handiwork, had managed to unbutton his black button up. Sherlock slowed his own disrobing of Molly as she revelled in the smooth sound his shirt made as it cleared the top of his defined shoulders and slid down his back.

“Just drop it,” Sherlock said against the skin of Molly’s mostly bare shoulder. “It’s way too dark for that current load of laundry and I prefer to have it dry-cleaned.”

Molly snorted and quickly buried her face into the crook below his collarbone from embarrassment. Sherlock didn’t seem to care though, and chuckled lightly along with her and well after she’d stopped –the low reverberating sound in his chest rising to the surface where Molly’s cheek rested.

The room once again returned to silence after the laughter had died down and Sherlock withdrew his body from its close contact with Molly’s. With a cocked eyebrow, Molly followed him over to the machine.

“I should start this load now that we’ve run out of laundry to put in,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

Molly took the time to look down at her set of bra and pants, miraculously a set of matching purple and grey tartan, and nodded.

“And you?” Molly noted the remaining clothes on his body, running her fingers up and down his torso.

“I’m afraid it’s all black,” he replied, scrunching up his face at the realization that everything he’d put on that morning was the same colour.

“Trousers and all, eh?” Molly pulled herself closer to him, his side bumping against the dryer behind him.

Her eyes remained trained on his hazel-blue orbs, but her fingers had their own agenda. Sherlock watched her, totally entranced for a few seconds, until he heard a zip from his trousers. Not breaking their eye contact, Sherlock turned Molly around and into the front of the washing machine. Their bodies hit with a thud, but the two didn’t seem to notice.

It wasn’t until their faces neared each other again that they both, almost at the same time, realized that they hadn’t actually kissed yet. Somehow, all of the goofing around had been much easier, much less daunting, than a meager action that school kids did behind buildings after class.

“You should, just-” Molly began.

Her voice only had to travel a few centimeters, but it seemed kilometers away when Sherlock made no attempt to lean any further.

“Just-” Molly tried again, this time reaching out and taking his chin in her right hand.

Sherlock hummed in agreement, but still hovered close by, unmoving.

“Just-” She repeated once more annoyed.

She was about to pull away again, sure that he’d reconsidered, when she felt two hands, almost as big as her face, cup either side of her head and draw her in for a kiss. His body twisted above hers, leaning her back slightly against the washing machine. One of his hands moved down from her head to the small of her back while the other one carded through her hair. He pushed into the kiss harder, leaving the top part of her body parallel with the ground. She was fairly sure that without his hold on her, she would have fallen down. But with every readjustment that Sherlock made, Molly’s concern with her balance became less and less of an issue.

Molly’s hands, that had been slung around Sherlock’s neck ever since he’d taken control of their kiss, finally braced her body against the machine behind her. His fervour was brilliant, but if she didn’t stop him now, she was afraid she’d have quite a few brilliant red marks on her back by the time it was over.

“Sherlock,” she breathed out, sinking slightly as he continued to peck at her lips, lingering just above her.

He paused briefly, smiling against her mouth, before his lips began to travel southward. They made their way across her neck, stopping in every place that smelled and tasted better than the last, until Molly’s upright position hardly made a difference in improving her balance.

It was times like these that a flood of reasons of why she shouldn’t be doing this, would rush in. But the only thought that seemed to cross her mind was just how slow Sherlock was planning on going.

He made a trail of cooled marks down her neck, past the dip between her collarbones and finally to the peak of both breasts. Sherlock stopped then, as if facing a roadblock, and pulled down on the tops of each cup. The modestly padded cups were persistent and snapped back up after each of Sherlock’s attempts. His fingers, skirting near the wire of each one, started pulling up from the bottom, when the material fell away in front of him. His head snapped back up towards Molly, whose eyes were still closed, and he smirked.

“Not too small?” Molly asked with a slight apprehension in her voice.

“No,” Sherlock replied quietly between kisses over each one.

His mouth and hands rotated between the left and right, casting warm breaths over each nipple while his fingers played innocently with the other.

Molly watched from above, fighting every impulse to pull him right up and take him there and now. Her hands, deep in the curls on his head, began to pull harder at his hair as Sherlock showed no sign of stopping.

“Fuck!” Molly yelled as Sherlock’s hands began to roam lower, finding her own curls.

“Just say when,” Sherlock joked, poking head up for a second.

Molly found little humour is his statement and tugged him back up, meeting his mouth with hers. Her kisses were light and cautious this time; making him lean even farther into her each time she pulled back. With little patience for her games, Sherlock’s teeth, without delay, grabbed onto her upper lip and pulled away slowly, eliciting a long exhale from Molly. With each pull, his body ground against Molly’s, pushing against her center harder and harder each time.

He was about to lift her, placing both hands just underneath her bum, when he paused, unsure of himself. Giving him no alternative option, Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and pushed herself up.

Like a horse out of the gate, Sherlock reacted quickly, picking Molly up further and onto the lid of the washing machine. Her legs pulled him in closer and he stepped forward, obliging. With her body trapped against the machine, Sherlock teased Molly’s center through her underwear. Her left arm slung over Sherlock’s neck, held her upright while the other swayed behind her, trying to find a surface to lean against. It met only air for a few seconds before hitting a smooth button on the machine panel. With the sound of running water and the slow tumble of the washing machine starting up, Molly realized just what button had been pressed.

“Shit,” she breathed out, between pants.

Sherlock leaned forward as his eyes peaked over her shoulder and he chuckled.

“What?” Molly asked, meeting his eyes again.

His head leaned in again by her ear and he whispered between laughs, “you’ve got it set to permanent press.”

His mouth was slightly agape between laughs when his eyes found hers –shuttered and steadily trained on him. His mouth closed slowly as her taut lips opened and susurrated, “when.”

It would have been ideal for the following movements to run smoothly and in sync, but this was Sherlock and Molly. Like two trains moving towards each other on the same track, their heads knocked into each other amidst the scramble for his trouser zipper. Simultaneously, the two reared back and elicited a yelp of pain. But while Sherlock’s hands rushed to aid his injured forehead, Molly’s returned to the zipper. Once all the way down, her feet pulled at the back of his trousers, forcing them over his bum and passed his knees.

Her hands had barely skimmed the front of his pants when Sherlock returned his attention to the woman before him. He lifted her with ease in one arm and dragged her pants down with the other. After snagging at her knees, he returned her body to the thudding washing machine and waited as the strip of tartan fabric slid down her calves and dangled from her feet. Unmoving, the two watched, transfixed, as the pants finally fell the rest of the distance to the floor.

Molly wasted no time, darting her hands out towards Sherlock’s length that pushed out against the black material of his boxer briefs. Once freed, her hands ran down the length of it, stopping near the base to look back up at Sherlock. His ocean coloured eyes met hers behind hooded lids and a low groan, barely audible, escaped his lips.

“Condom?” Molly said, breaking contact.

A look of panic hit Sherlock, before he leaned down a bit and reached into the pocket of his trousers that still sat around his knees.

With a deliberately slow pace, Molly tore the package open and rolled the latex over Sherlock’s length. He bucked against the pressure, gripping his fingers against Moly’s back. Their eyes met once more, both uncertain, but yet, more sure than they’d been about anything else. With one final nod to continue, Sherlock thrust upwards into Molly. Taking a moment to familiarize himself with her, he held Molly still against him –their bodies pulsing in a syncopated rhythm. Without communication, they began pounding into each other, rough and frantic. As Molly pushed down into Sherlock, he came to meet her, thrusting upwards. The machine below them rumbled on, unaware of the cadence they had created. But all exterior stimuli had faded from their periphery long before.

For once, their highly functioning minds focused on one thing and one thing alone. And they did so however possible. Fingers splayed against skin and bodies slapped together, unceremoniously hurried. Hands wandered south for as long as possible before steadying themselves once again, holding onto each other and the machine below.

“Just –just…” Molly panted out before crying out a long string of deities.

Sherlock felt the contracting pressure against his length and pushed himself over the edge shortly after. Bracing her weight as she slouched into them, the two of them waited to catch their breath before pulling apart.

Like a teenager after having sex for the first time, Sherlock shied away from molly, sliding his pants and trousers back up. Molly remained sitting on the washing machine, swinging her legs back and forth as she reached behind her and turned off the machine. It wound down slowly until the door to machine unlocked and the water began to rinse away.

“Where are you –” Molly began to ask as a distracted Sherlock made his way back to her living room.

Molly sighed and redressed herself with her dry undergarments on the floor and Sherlock’s discarded button up. After a minute alone in the laundry room, Molly began to wonder if he flat out bolted from her place, when the well toned man himself, reentered the room.

“What were you doing?” she asked, pulling at the ends of his shirt nervously.

He made a goofy smile; one that Molly herself was hardly graced with, and withdrew a multicoloured package from his pocket.

“I thought that while we’re here, we might as well put the wash on for real,” he replied nonchalantly. “I brought a few pods incase the detergent bottle wasn’t readily available.”

Molly eyes soften and she walked up taking the pod from his hand.

“So this is your favourite detergent?” she asked, hiding a smirk.

“My favourite on you.”


End file.
